an oatmeal jumper—or, at least, a woollen jumper of an oatmeal colour—and a pair of bright red, corduroy, paint-splattered plus-fours, and worn brown leather sandals, and knee-length papal yellow socks, and a black beret. Two of his dogs, the mongrels, Picasso and Matisse, in their matching blue paisley neckerchiefs, sat by him, eyes closed, tongues lolling, like a couple of huskies exhausted from some long artistic hike. Pearce had a greasy-looking cap down at his feet, a viola in one hand, and a straggly bow in the other. He had recently grown a thin, grizzled beard, and he wasn’t looking at all well. He was standing like a wind-cracked Lear on the stormy heath, except he was in Tumdrum, standing outside Zelda’s Café, staring into the distance, a rheumy, faraway look in his eyes, as if he’d suddenly caught sight of his own destiny and it wasn’t looking good.
‘Pearce! How are you?’ said Israel, as he and Ted approached the door.
‘Israel, Israel!’ said Pearce, his voice thin but still forceful, the gingery voice of George Bernard Shaw on an old wax cylinder. ‘How lovely are the…’ He started coughing. ‘Feet of thee…’
‘Er…?’
‘Israel…?’ asked Pearce.
‘Armstrong,’ said Israel, generously. ‘Israel Armstrong.’
‘Ah!’ Pearce pantomime-smacked his forehead. ‘Of course!’
‘The librarian?’ offered Israel.
‘Yes. Yes. Have you lost weight?’
‘Maybe a little bit.’
‘And the beard?’
‘Yes.’
‘El Barbaro,’ said Pearce. ‘Had dinner once with Castro. With my second wife. Pork. Relentless talker.’
‘Aye, that’s the two of yous, then,’ said Ted.
‘Sshh,’ said Israel.
‘Is he dead?’ asked Pearce.
‘Fidel Castro?’ said Israel. ‘No, Pearce, I think he’s still going strong.’
‘I heard he’d died,’ said Pearce.
‘No, that was maybe Che Guevara.’
‘Oh. Really. But how are you…?’ asked Pearce.
‘Israel.’
‘Israel, yes.’
‘Good, thanks, yes…Erm, Pearce?’
‘Yes, my dear?’
‘You’re playing the violin?’
‘Viola, Israel. Viola. You can tell the difference, surely? Oxford-educated man like yourself.’
‘Oxford Brookes,’ said Ted, taking a last, deep, desperate draw on his cigarette before going into the café. ‘Wasn’t it? The polytechnic.’
‘Ex-polytechnic,’ said Israel. ‘Thank you, Ted. Ex.’
‘Aye,’ said Ted, coughing.
‘Oxford,’ said Pearce, reverently, as though describing a lover. ‘Much darker tone.’
‘Sorry?’ said Israel. ‘You’ve lost me. Oxford has a much darker tone than…?’
‘The viola,’ said Pearce. ‘Compared to the violin. Much darker. Voice of the soul. C. G. D. A.’ Pearce plucked at the strings of the instrument in his hand. ‘Prelude to the Bach cello suites, arrangement by an old friend of mine. My first wife—beautiful soprano voice. Igor wrote something for her mother…’
‘Erm.’ Israel hesitated. Pearce had recently been showing signs of memory loss and confusion. He’d been found as far away as Belfast, on his bicycle, claiming that he was riding in the peloton in the Tour de France. ‘You know you’re outside Zelda’s, playing your violin?’ said Israel.
‘Viola,’ said Pearce. ‘I’m collecting money for the Green Party. Forthcoming elections. Need every penny.’
‘You’re busking,’ said Israel.
‘That’s illegal,’ said Ted, spitting on the pavement.
‘Fund-raising,’ said Pearce. ‘Spare a few coppers, guv’nor?’
‘Not likely,’ said Ted.
‘I didn’t know you were a Green Party supporter,’ said Israel.
‘Isn’t everybody these days?’ said Pearce, breaking into another racking coughing fit, which doubled him over, his slight frame shaking as he stood himself up straight again.
‘No,’ said Ted.
‘Sssh,’ said Israel, staring hard at Ted. ‘Are you all right, Pearce?’
‘Yes,’ coughed Pearce. ‘Fine.’
‘Good,’ Israel said. ‘Good for you.’
‘It’s not good for me,’ said Pearce. ‘Not at all. That’s not the point of it, my dear. It’s good for the planet.’
‘Yes,’ said Israel, soothingly. ‘I meant—’
‘I’ve been planting trees up at the house, you know, carbon offsetting. About a thousand now, I think.’
‘A thousand trees?’
‘Indeed.’
‘That’s a lot of trees,’ said Israel.
‘Hardly,’ said Pearce. ‘You can never have enough trees.’
‘No,’ agreed Israel. ‘They don’t grow on…trees.’
‘Sorry?’
‘They don’t—’ began Israel.
‘Just ignore him,’ said Ted. ‘And he shuts up in the end.’
‘Handbook of the soul,’ said Pearce. ‘A tree.’
‘Is it?’ said Israel.
‘Of course.’
‘Right. Yes. Probably it is.’
‘Irish oak. Native species. Sorbus aucuparia. Sorbus hibernica…I had a friend who grew hurley ash for profit, you know. Nice little business.’
‘Aye, all right,’ said Ted. ‘Let’s get in here for our coffee, Israel, shall we?’
‘Yeah, sure. Pearce, do you want a cup of tea or anything to keep you warm? We’re just going into Zelda’s here—’
‘No, thanks,’ said Pearce. ‘No time for tea. Work to be done. Planet and what
